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” Finnigan 


swung wildly and fanned ! " 


Midget Blake, Pitcher 

By LESLIE W. QUIRK 

Author of “ Baby Elton,” “ Quarterback,” Etc. 

ILLUSTRATED BY B. M. FAIRBANK 



NEW YORK: 

McLOUGHLIN BROTHERS 



UB»{4l5V^(KWaBE3S 

tVfc<)O!H««0MJv«t 

OCT 8 1906 

a.rrn^oi, 

OLMS A )OCo, Htt 

'■a,".'' '■ 

r ? H Si- !B »JUJJ i a I 


Copyright, ipc6, by 
McLoughlin Bkotuers, New Yoex 


CHAPTER I 


Testing His Mettle 

CHAPTER II 

The Courage of a Fighter 

CHAPTER III 

The Catcher’s Opportunity . 

CHAPTER IV 

The Stolen Trophy Cup 

CHAPTER V 


The Championship Game 



Midget Blake, Pitcher 


CHAPTER I 

SHOWING HIS METTLE 

‘ ‘ X F you please, 
JL sir, I should 
like a chance to pitch 
a few balls.” Big 
Kling, the baseball 
® coach, turned slowly 
and faced the boy 
^ who had spoken. 

“Oh! you do?” he 
said, with just a 
tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “What do they 
call you?” 

“ ‘Midget’ ” explained the boy, so embarrassed 
for the moment that he did not realize that the 



6 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

coach wanted his real name. “That is, Frank 
Blake.’^ 

The coach smiled. Beneath liis great hulking 
frame, he had a very kind heart — and the college 
needed pitchers sorely! 

“All right. Midget,” he encouraged; “throw 
off your coat and come in here.” 

He lifted the net, and the boy stepped into the 
baseball “cage.” It was on the top floor of the 
college gymnasium, and almost as light as out- 
doors. A great net, like a loosely-spun hammock, 
covered three sides of the immense room. The 
fourth was a white canvas curtain, with two par- 
allelograms painted upon it in black. Towards 
these two young fellows were pitching balls. 

“Ever pitch inside?” asked Coach Kling. The 
boy was so obviously a Freshman that the ques- 
tion was only natural. 

“No,” confessed the boy. 

“Well,” explained Kling, “each of those par- 
allelograms represents the limits of a strike. 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


7 


They are as high as a man’s shoulders and as 
low as his knees and as wide as the home plate. 
Put the ball anywhere inside the lines and you’ve 
got a strike. I presume you’ve pitched a little on 
your high school team.” 

Now, The Midget, as he was nicknamed, had 
been instrumental in winning the State high 
school championship for his nine, but he did not 
tell the coach this. There was a vast difference 
between a high school and a college, as the boy 
was beginning to understand, and, besides, he 
was too modest to talk about himself. So he 
merely nodded his head. 

The coach waved aside one of the other pitch- 
ers, and tossed the boy a spotless white ball. The 
Midget caught it deftly, and closed liis long fin- 
gers caressingly about it. Then he stepped into 
position, and eyed the black marks on the curtain 
for a full minute. 

He threw a fast straight ball that caught the 
canvas fairly in the middle of the parallelogram. 


. MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 



“ You’ll do ! Practice at four to-morrow. Good-night 

Page 20. 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


9 


The coach’s eyes opened wide with appreciation 
of the quick snap of the arm and of the accurate 
throw. 

The Midget smiled a little, and threw an in- 
shoot and then an out. He sent over a fast ball 
and then a tantalizing slow one. And once, just 
as the last, he moistened the sphere slightly and 
looked at the coach inquiringly. 

Kling was smiling a little derisively as the boy 
drew back his arm. No college pitcher had ever 
mastered the “spit” ball. But as he watched the 
throw, and saw the sudden break, perhaps six 
feet from the canvas, he stopped smiling, very 
suddenly, and a new light came into his eyes. 
The pitch had gone a little wide, but the boy had 
thrown a “spit” ball wonderfully well for the first 
jtrial — and very few batters can hit a pitch in 
which the ball breaks suddenly from its path, 
owing to a partially wet surface, before it crosses 
the plate ! 

That night coach Kling, the baseball Czar of 


10 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


the college, and Midget Blake, the Freshman, 
went home arm in arm, so engrossed in their talk 
that several upper-classmen who spoke to the big 
coach felt snubbed when he failed to respond to 
their greetings. And the next day, when the col- 
lege met the local high school team for the first 
practice game. Midget Blake was in the pitcher’s 
box. 

Some of the high school boys had played 
against the youngster the year before, and smiled 
hopefully. They had never beaten the big men 
in a regular game, but each year they w^ent into 
the fray with hopes high. This time, with one 
of the little pitchers of another high school pitted 
against them at the outset, they determined to 
begin by making a safe margin of runs to offset 
the pitching of any other man whom Coach 
Kling might put against them. 

The Midget was nervous. Down where his 
heart should have been, there seemed to be an 
engine — pumping, jumping, throbbing. The dis- 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER ]] 

tance between him and the batter looked twice 
as far as the rules prescribed. Away off at the 
end of it the home plat, brushed neatly, sparkled 
at him like a little white star. 

He decided to throw a straight ball to make 
sure of his aim. It went cleanly toward the 
middle of the plate, but the batter caught it fairly 
on the end of his stick, and it sailed far over The 
Midget’s head for a two-base hit. The next bat- 
ter sent a sizzling grounder at the short-stop, and 
made his base on the ragged fielding. 

The Midget gritted his teeth. The few spec- 
tators were very still, waiting for the next play, 
and a little sorry for the pink-cheeked boy in 
the box. Somehow or other, though, he felt cold 
all at once, and found he was shaking. But for 
all that he had. calmed wonderfully. Now he 
could see the plate clearly, and confidence in his 
ability to pitch grew in his heart. He threw an 
out-curve that started straight for the plate, and 
then sw^erved away from the batter, who missed 


12 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


it by six inches. Another, in exactly the same 
place, made two strikes. The catcher grinned, 
and signalled for a third. 

For a moment The Midget hesitated. By this 
time the batter would realize his error in striking 
at balls that went wide. — “At balls that went 
wide,” — the words lingered in the boy’s brain 
after the thought had come and gone. There was 
the opportunity ; the ball must not go wide. He 
threw it straight at the batter, and when the 
player had jumped back suddenly, the ball curved 
gracefully out over the middle of the plate. The 
first man was out. 

The next batter popped up a little fly to first, 
and The Midget began to grow confident — far 
too confident. He shot over a stinging in-curve, 
and the batter met it squarely for a long hit over 
the center fielder’s head. By the time the ball 
was returned, two runners had scored, and 
another rested on third, puffing audibly from his 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER |3 

long run, but smiling in a superior way that cut 
straight into The Midget’s heart. 

It was the tonic needed, however, and the next 
batter lunged fearfully at the first three strikes, 
and ignominiously struck out. 

The runs were small matters of themselves, 
as the high school boys would of course be no 
match for the college team. But a triple and a 
double in the first inning did not speak well for 
The Midget’s ability to pitch strongly under fire. 
The boy knew it himself, and when Kling came 
over to suggest that he give way to another 
pitcher, who was to be tried out, the appealing 
look in the boy’s blue eyes made him change his 
mind. At best it was only a practice game, and 
The Midget had struck out two men in a single 
inning. So he made some common-place re- 
mark, and added a word of cheer that made the 
little fellow^’s face grow rosy with pleasure. 

As the game progressed the high school team 
proved more and more of a surprise. It had been 


14 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


practicing for weeks with the sole idea of beat- 
ing the college nine, which was just finding the 
proper men for its positions. Not only that, but 
the school pitcher proved something of a genius. 
At the end of .the third inning the score showed 
that the college had but three runs against the 
two of the other nine. 

The Midget hit the first batter in the fourth, 
and the fellow walked to first, ostentatiously rub- 
bing his arm, which the ball had merely grazed. 
The second batter drove a hot grounder into the 
tliird baseman’s hands, and the latter promptly 
overthrew first by ten feet. The runners ad- 
vanced to second and third. The next rapped 
out a clean single, and ithe bases were full, with 
nobody out. 

The Midget faced a crisis and he knew it. He 
took the ball gingerly when it was returned to 
him from the field, and turned it over and over. 
Then he rubbed a little dirt on his hand, to over- 
come the perspiration that dampened it. The 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 15 

batter was the pitcher of the other team, and had 
fanned .the last time; but The Midget took no 
chances. The first ball was a sharp in-shoot that 
cut the plate, even while the batter was sneering 
at the wide throw. The second was a fast 
straight ball that was in the catcher's hands be- 
fore the swinging bat was over the plate. Two 
more “coaxers" whistled past just far enough 
out to be called balls. Then, The Midget drew 
back his arm, as if to deliver a fast straight one 
again, and threw it so slowly that the batter 
lunged forward and lost his balance in an effort 
to meet it. One man was out. 

The next player headed the batting list, and 
had already lined out a single in addition to the 
double at the outset. The Midget shut his teeth 
with a determined snap, and looked the fellow 
over carefully. Suddenly, without the usual 
swing of his arm, he sent in a fast straight ball 
that came so unexpectedly that one strike had 
been called before the batter appreciated the sit- 


16 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


uation. The boy saw the fellow’s jaw go for- 
ward, and his hand clench on the bat. He meant 
to hit the ball, and to hit it hard. 

An in-curve, that barely sailed over the cor- 
ner of the plate, was called a second strike. The 
catcher nodded his head approvingly, and off on 
the side-hnes Coach Kling squatted down ^vith 
a grunt of satisfaction. He saw The Midget 
shake his head at every signal the catcher made 
until the two met on the diamond and exchanged 
a few words. Then The Midget, smiling a lit- 
tle, carried his gloved left hand to his mouth as 
a shield for his right and the ball, and the coach 
knew he was going to try the “spit” ball. 

The pitch began as if it were to cut the plate 
without a curve, and the batter drew back expect- 
antly. At the very moment he swung how- 
ever, he saw the ball jerk suddenly, and in 
spite of himself the bat missed it by three inches. 
It was the first spit ball ever pitched to him, and 
he walked away from the base with a startled look 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER |7 

on his face. The Midget was grinning cheer- 
fully. 

The next batter was the second on the list, and 
was considered a sure hitter. He made the mis- 
take, however, of swinging too hard, of being too 
anxious, and missed cleanly the first two strikes. 
Then he slipped up his hand suddenly, holding 
the bat loosely, and bunted down the first base 
line. 

Like a flash the first baseman swooped down 
upon the ball. The Midget hesitated just an in- 
stant, confused, before his brain eleared. Then 
he raced for the base, and took the throw neatly. 
The batter was out, and the side was retired. 

Over on the side-lines they cheered him noisily 
when he came in from the field. Coach Kling 
met him. 

“All right. Midget, ’’ he said, quietly. “You 
may run in to the gymnasium now, and I’ll try 
out some other pitchers. I’m glad I left you in 
long enough to test your mettle.” 


18 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


“Thank you, sir,’’ said The Midget, very 
meekly, as if he had done nothing at all wonder- 
ful. “Thank you, sir,” he repeated, and raced 
over toward the “gym.” 

He had taken a hot shower and then an icy 
cold one, and was dressing when the team came 
in. The final score had been twelve to five in 
favor of the college boys, and The Midget felt 
a queer little thrill of pride that his work had been 
instrumental in winning. It was the first time 
he had seemed to be a part of the college. 

One of the fellows came aroimd to his locKcr, 
and he recognized Carper, another of the pitchers. 

“Ah! that you, Blake?” greeted the latter. 
“Well, you got out of it luckier than I did; they 
made three runs in the three innings I pitched.” 

It wasn’t luck ; The Midget knew that . But 
he was no cad, and he only said quietly, “That’s 
too bad. Carper.” 

“It was,” agreed the other ruefully, “I wanted 
to make a record this year, too. I won seven out 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


19 


of ten games I pitched last season, and I’m going 
to do a lot better this time.” 

The Midget was so modest himself that he 
hardly knew how to meet this egotistical young 
man. He ventured the remark that Carper must 
have done a lot for the old college, and was sur- 
prised to see the other sneer openly. 

“Hang the college!” he exclaimed. “It’s a 
reputation I’m looking for.” 

Before the boy could reply. Coach Kliiig came 
up. He had heard Carper’s words, and as the 
fellow moved away he turned to Blake. 

“Midget,” he said kindly, with a gruff ness to 
hide the sentiment, “ don’t go wrong! You’re 
working for the old college, my boy; remember 
that. She’s got a reputation to uphold, and we 
shall count on you to help. We want you to do it 
because you’ve got the proper college spirit, too ; 
because you’d slave for her rather than for your 
own glory. A man who can’t forget himself 
isn’t much good to a college.” 


20 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


“Yes, sir,” said the Midget. 

Kling looked at the boy’s shining eyes silently. 
For a moment neither spoke. Then the coach 
held out his hand. 

“ You’ve got it,” he declared, a little ambig- 
uously. “You’ll do! Practice at four tomorrow. 
Good night!” 

“Good night,” said The Midget, watching 
Kling’s retreating form. Then he said to him- 
self, as if he had discovered some new creation, 
“There’s a man, — a man with a college spirit.” 



CHAPTER II 


THE COUEAGE OF A FIGHTER 

“^RACKr 
The bat- 
ter met the first ball 
The Midget pitched, 
and sent it sailing 
straight over the 
lefit-field fence for 
a home run. The 
two men on bases 
trotted toward the 
plate leisurely. Out on the side lines the other 
coach jeered softly: 

“Going up! Going up! Going! Going! Gone!” 

It was the fourth hit in the sixth inning of the 

first critical game. Already The Midget had 

been touched up safely a dozen times, with six 
21 



22 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

runs as a result. Now the score was 9 to 0, and 
the game hopelessly lost. 

The Midget wiped his damp forehead, and 
looked toward Coach Kling, over on the home 
players’ bench. The big man nodded his head 
wearily, and the boy walked over toward him, 
batted out of the box in tlie first college game of 
the season! 

He was breathing quickly when he reached the 
coach, and his eyes were half -closed and hard. 
For a moment Kling eyed him soberly. Then he 
spoke. 

“What’s the trouble. Midget? Bounder?” 

Bounder was the catcher. The Midget jerked 
back his head suddenly, and the surprise in his 
eyes was too plain to escape Kling. The big 
man sighed wearily. 

“Yes, I (thought so,” he said. “I’ve been 
watching him.” He hesitated, and then said, a 
little abstractedly, “He and Carper are great 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


23 


friends, you know. I’d have taken him out long 
ago, but there’s nobody else for back-stop.” 

As The Midget hurried to the gymnasium, his 
face burned with anger. He had pitched to the 
very best of his ability; he knew his curves were 
wide, and his throws accurate. Had it not been 
for Bounder. 

The catcher had given all the signals. At the 
very first of the game, when he had ordered a 
low ball for a batter who seemed to find it the 
only thing he could hit, and a fast straight one 
for the crack slugger of the other team, which had 
resulted in long hits, the little pitcher had won- 
dered at the seasoned catcher’s lack of judgment. 
But when it had gone from bad to worse — when 
he found that Bounder was playing him deliber- 
ately into the hands of the opposing batters — a 
,great anger surged up into his heart. At the 
last, when the cool, insolent catcher had smiled at 
Carper, on the bench, his passion overpowered 
him, and he grew wild, hitting batters, giving 


24 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 



He reached the place at exactly the right rr*oment. 

Page 32. 




MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 25 

bases on balls, and pitching strikes that were 
turned into two and three base hits and even one 
home run. 

Then Kling had taken him out of ithe game, 
and up in the grandstand they called him a 
quitter; told each other how he had failed to make 
good, how he had been batted all over the held. 
Only Kling had known; he was too much of a 
veteran not to understand. 

As The Midget stood under the shower bath, 
he drew up his arms slowly, and watched the big 
muscles knot. He was proud of his development; 
it had meant years of steady exercise of all kinds. 
He had spent an hour each day in his high school 
gymnasium ever since he had graduated from the 
eighth grade. All the muscle-developing ma- 
chines had been tried and re-tried ; he had wrestled 
assiduously, and even taken a course in boxing. 
His father had objected to his becoming a fighter, 
as he expressed it, particularly after the instruc- 


26 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


tor had announced proudly that the boy could 
“lick anybody anywhere near his weight.’’ 

Instead of dressing, The Midget slipped into 
his gymnasium suit, and raced upstairs to the 
main floor. Off in the comer room, with the 
padded sides, a boxing instructor had just fin- 
ished giving a hopeful but awkward student a les- 
son. His eyes kindled at The Midget’s muscles. 

“Box?” he asked tersely. 

The Midget nodded his head silently, and with- 
out invitation slipped on the gloves. He stepped 
into position, throwing his left up to his face for 
guard and drawing his right close to his body, 
waiting. 

The Midget never knew what the instructor 
thought of the “go.” The boy only saw an imag- 
inary Bounder in front of him, and he lunged and 
tapped and drove viciously out of pure joy of 
hitting the foe he wished were there. When the 
other’s gloves found his face or body he only 
grinned cheerfully, and bore in himself. At the 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


27 


end of five minutes, both were breathing rapidly 
and perspiring. A little knot of students had 
gathered about them, and one was telling the 

others (that the kid was “Midget, Midget 

Blake, the Freshman pitcher.” 

After they had taken off the gloves, the in- 
structor held out his hand. 

“You’re great,” he exclaimed. “Let me take 
you in tow, and I’ll make you a fighter.” 

The Midget shook his head. “Not that,” he 
said. “I’m a boxer, tliat’s all.” And without ex- 
planation, he trotted downstairs again. Just as 
he turned toward his locker, he came face to 
face with Bounder. In an instant all the old an- 
ger surged into his heart again. He drew back 
his arm menacingly. The catcher was the heavier 
by far, but the boy was not afraid. 

“Bounder,” he said, with his teeth close to- 
gether, “you threw the game to-day.” 

The other made a show of astonishment. 
“What do you mean?” he demanded. 


28 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

“You know well enough,” declared The Mid- 
get. 

“You played me into the hands of the batters; 
you made me out a fool, a laughing stock, to 
every one of the spectators.” 

Bounder stepped back coolly. “Oh!” he 
sneered . “Excusing yourself that way after 
your miserable showing? What do you want to do 
anyhow? Fight?” 

The Midget swallowed once, twice. Bounder 
had clenched his fists and was waiting. The other 
fellows on the team had gathered about. Of 
course the catcher was too heavy for the boy, they 
told each other, but the little pitcher was game. 

The Midget thought of his boxing upstairs, of 
his ability to whip in lightning blows upon a slow 
heavy opponent. Down in his heart he was confi- 
dent he could thrash the fellow within an inch 
of his life. But the thought of his father’s ob- 
jection to fighting imless it was absolutely nec- 
essary came into his mind. He hesitated, and 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 29 

glanced around. The disapproving face of 
Coach Kling met his eye as he lowered -the hand 
he had involuntarily thrown up. 

“No,” he said slowly, “ I don’t want to fight.” 

For a long minute the silence was painful. 
Presently some one coughed. Some one else only 
half smothered a remark that brought the blood 
to The Midget’s face. 

“You’re wise,” insulted Bounder, with a snarl 
that was meant for a laugh. “You haven’t the 
strength in that baby pitching arm of yours to 
hit me hard enough to leave even a bruise.” 

The Midget’s face went from crimson to white, 
or an instant it seemed he was about to break his 
resolution, and prove himself not a coward in the 
eyes of his fellows. But he turned quickly, and 
walked away. Only the boy himself, and pos- 
sibly big Kling, who was all-wise in the ways of 
athletes with real courage, understood that he had 
proved himself wonderfully brave. 


30 


' MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


As The Midget was tying his shoe-string the 
big coach came to liis side. 

“Want to go out on the lake?” he asked. 

The boy looked up gratefully. “Thank you!” 
he said quietly, with a whole world of gratitude 
in his tone, “I should.” 

Kling unlocked the row-boat, and together 
they pushed it into the water. The big man put 
the boy in the stem, where he could face him, 
and then pulled slowly, but with tremendous 
strength, out from the boat-house toward the 
middle of the lake. 

“We won’t talk about it,” began the coach, 
“because it won’t help matters. I’m glad you had 
the courage not to fight, and I’m all the more 
glad because I had just been chatting with Mor- 
iarty, the boxing instructor, you know. What I 
do want to say, though, is that I’ve got hold of 
a new catcher, as clean-limbed and as solid a back- 
stop as you’d want. I’ll use him when you pitch, 
and Carper and Bounder can work together. 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


31 


If it weren't absolutely necessary to use them, 
I’d drop both. You can’t rely on—” 

He stopped suddenly as he caught the quick 
change on The Midget’s face. While he talked 
the boat had been cutting through the water 
sharply, and the boy had been facing him. Now, 
as the little pitcher looked up, he caught sight of 
a canoe directly ahead, in the very act of being 
run down. And in the canoe sat Bounder, bliss- 
fully paddling straight ahead with a leisurely 
movement that scarcely carried the shell for- 
ward at all. 

The Midget' jumped to his feet and shouted. 
Bounder turned quickly, and gave an agonized 
scream. 

“Don’t! Don’t!” he begged hysterically, wav- 
ing the row-boat aside as if it were human. 
“Don’t! For God’s sake, don’t! I can’t swim a 
stroke! I ” 

The heavy row-boat crashed into the frail 
canoe, and tore through it as if it had been paper. 


32 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

Bounder disappeared instantly. The shock, 
slight as it was, was enough to over-balance 
Kling, who toppled out into the water. Only 
The Midget was left, standing there white and 
still. 

But it was for only a second. Like a flash he 
had whfpped off his coat and dived. Even as he 
went down he caught sight of Kling’s face com- 
ing to the surface, and of a great arm that quite 
naturally pulled a long overhand stroke toward 
the boat. Kling could swim, of course. 

When The Midget came to the surface, the big 
coach was hanging to the side of the row-boat, 
shaking the water from his hair and eyes, and 
smiling cheerfully. The boat had drifted around 
enough to place him on the shore-side. Out fur- 
ther in the lake a head came to the surface for 
an instant, and then went down again. Kling 
had not realized that there might be anybody 
except The Midget and himself in the water. 

The boy caught his stroke quickly, and swam 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 33 

out toward the spot where he had seen the head. 
He had forgoten his anger toward Bounder; he 
remembered only that he was in danger. 

He reached the place at exactly the right in- 
stant. A tangle of black hair parted the water, 
and a frantic hand buried itself in The Midget’s 
own head. The boy reached up and tried to 
shake it off. As he did so, he felt himself drawn 
down under the water. 

It was a desperate fight to regain the surface. 
When he did, he saw that Kling and the boat 
were even further away than before. He shouted 
hoarsely, and in a second the big man was swim- 
ming toward him. 

He was pulled under again, and when he 
reached the surface he saw that he must act 
quickly and decisively. Kling would not be able 
to reach him in time. 

With a quick fling, he turned over on his side, 
facing the frantic Bounder, and swinging his 
arm above the surface, brought his clenched fist 


34 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

against the other’s face. The first blow failed 
of its purpose, and he s>vung again, bringing 
into play every ounce of muscle he could com- 
mand. The blow landed fairly on the drowning 
man’s chin. 

With a quick, convulsive gasp. Bounder fell 
back into the water, from which he had seemed 
to rise partially by the aid of the hand on The 
Midget’s head. He loosed his hold on the boy’s 
hair, and turning on his face began to sink 
slowly. In an instant the boy had caught him 
and was easily supporting the dead weight when 
the coach reached him. 

With Kling’s aid he towed him to the boat, 
and they worked over him vigorously and as 
scientifically as they could in the cramped quar- 
ters. A brisk rubbing, and a massaging of the 
body over the lungs had the desired eiFeot. Boun- 
der opened his eyes wonderingly. 

“Where am I?” he asped. “What’s hap- 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 35 

pened?” He was touching his face and chin 
gingerly. 

“The Midget hit you,” remarked the coach, 
with a chuckle, — “twice: once over the left eye, 
which is turning a beautiful black and blue; and 
once on the point of the chin, which scored the 
knock-out.” It had been so near a tragedy that 
the big man could not trust himself to speak 
soberly. 

“Oh!” said Bounder, bewildered. “Oh!” Then 
a hazy recollection of the accident came to him. 
“I was in the water,” he shuddered, “drowning, 
and — and — ” 

“And The Midget, the youth ‘who hasn’t the 
strength in that baby pitching arm of his to hit 
you hard enough to leave even a bruise,’ saved 
your life when you were pulling him and yom-- 
self to the bottom, by knocking you unconscious 
and then floating you.” It was a long sentence 
for the big man, but there was exultation in his 


voice. 


36 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

Bounder lay silently, shivering miserably and 
coughing. Kling picked up the oars and began 
rowing toward shore. The Midget, embarrassed 
and shaking with fright and cold, now that it 
was all over, looked at the man on the bottom of 
the boat with a curious mixture of pity and con- 
tempt. 

“Don’t,” said Bounder, catching his eye. ‘T — 
I — Oh! I owe you an apology; I owe you more 
than that.” He paused awkwardly, and then said 
boyishly, “Will you shake hands with me. 
Midget, and call it quits? I’ll work for your re- 
spect later on.” 

The Midget grinned. “Why, sure. Bounder,” 
he said cordially. “Sure!” He gripped the 
other’s hand and wrung it. 

As they beached, two or three of the baseball 
fellows met them. They eyed the itwo wet fig- 
ures significantly, and grinned irritatingly at 
Bounder’s black and blue eye and bruised chin. 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 37 

“ ‘That baby pitching arm,’ ” whispered one to 
another, “seems — ” 

Bounder turned on the fellow sharply. “It 
isn’t a baby pitching arm,” he shouted angrily; 
“its muscle, clean muscle; the strongest arm I 
ever saw. And The Midget’s the whitest chap 
I know, and — and — ” He stopped, glaring at the 
astonished fellows before him. 

“Ajtid I say so,” he declared, with a jerky wave 
of his arm; “I, the only coward who ever dared, 
or ever will dare, to call it or him anything else.” 

Big Coach Kling winked solemnly at his play- 
ers, and they walked off, very much puzzled and 
somewhat pleased at the sudden throning of The 
Midget. And to this day, only the three princi- 
pals know what happened out on the lake. 


CHAPTER III 


THE CATCHER'S OPPORTUNITY 

‘ ‘ IT down, 
1^ Midget,” 
invited Coach 
Kling, as the boy 
stepped into the lat- 
ter’s room. “Silt 
down a minute till I 
can get these per- 
centages down on 
paper.” 

The boy sat down and looked around. It was 
the first time he had ever seen Kling’s room, and 
he was deeply interested. The big coach had told 
liim to come up directly after baseball practice 
to talk over the situation. 

The season was near its end — and the college 

38 



MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


39 


nine was in second place. There were only two 
two weeks more, and but two games, both Sat- 
urday ones. The usual mid-week contest had 
been omitted from the schedule on account of 
the final examinations that were at hand. 

“What I wanted to show you,” said Kling, 
suddenly, interrupting The Midget’s stare at the 
college trophies and the bats and balls and masks 
that had been tlirough royal contests in the past ; 
“what I wanted to show you was this table of 
percentages. As you see, we’re second, just a 
trifle over one game behind, with two battles 
against the leaders. If we win both — and we’ve 
got to do it. Midget — we’ll be the fraction of a, 
point ahead for the inter-collegiate champion-^ 
ship.” 

“Yes, sir,” said The Midget, “I know.” 

“You know?” asked Kling sharply. 

“Yes, sir, I’ve figured it all out. I’m — ^you 
see, I’m as much interested as you are.” He 
said it with an embarrassed little laugh. 


40 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


Kling’s eyes opened wide with pleasure. 
■^Good!” he exclaimed. “Good! I can count 
on you.” 

The Midget’s teeth came together, and his chin 
went out the least Httle bit. “I’ll win my game,” 
he said stubbornly. 

“Yes,” nodded Kling, “and you’ll do more. 
You’ll have to win both of them. I’ve decided to 
let you pitch tomorrow and also next Saturday.” 

There was notliing to say. The Midget gulped 
once or twice, and tried to smile happily. At last 
he had the entire confidence of the big man, in 
spite of a more or less disastrous season. So the 
boy only said, “Thank you!” very mechanically, 
and they fell to talking of other points of the 
game. 

The next day, when they warmed up. The 
Midget looked a little pale. Kling saw it, and 
asked the trouble. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” confessed the boy, shame- 
facedly. “I — I guess I am a little nervous.” 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


41 





Then he pitched — pitched like a demon. — Page 44. 



42 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


Kling’s face clouded. 

“Well,” he asked, “shall I put Carper in?” 

Blake raised his hand so suddenly that the 
coach wished he had not said it. The boy’s 
cheeks flushed. 

“No, sir,” said The Midget, “I’ll win.” 

“All right,” agreed Kling quietly. He started 
to walk away, and then came back. “I didn’t 
sleep either. Midget,” he confessed. “I wonder 
if you know what it means to me to have you win. 
I’ve given half a year of my best efforts to put 
the team on top. I — ” He stopped, a little sorry 
for his display of emotion until he saw The 
Midget’s big, round eyes sympathizing with him. 
He knew the boy would pitch as he had never 
pitched before. 

But The Midget, in spite of his determination, 
was clearly nervous. When Gleason, who had 
caught him ever since the first game, signalled 
for the “spit” ball, the boy sent it whizzing ten 
feet above his head. A dozen times they tried it, 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


43 


and a dozen times the pitch was wild. It was 
largely Gleason’s fault, perhaps, for the catcher 
had a disconcerting habit of waving his glove in 
a circle while he waited for the peculiar throw. 
It irritated The Midget, and he told the catcher 
so. Gleason was all contrition, and promised not 
to do it again. But every time he did, from 
pure force of habit. It would never do to throw 
that way with men on bases. 

At last the game began. The Midget’s team 
batted first, and were retired without a man’s 
seeing the initial bag. When the other nine came 
up, the first batter grasped the stick firmly and 
waited. Two strikes and two balls were called on 
him before he even swung. When he did, he met 
the ball squarely, and sent a liner straight into 
The Midget’s hands. 

The baU was batted back to him before he had 
recovered his position from the pitch. He felt 
a sudden sting in his hands, heard a roar from 
the grandstand — and dropped the ball. Con- 


44 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


fused, he tore desperately after it, caught it in 
his hand as it rolled, and, putting all the muscle 
of his arm into the throw, shot it to first. 

It went three feet over the baseman’s head, and 
the runner skirted second and was resting on 
third before the ball was back. 

Then Finnegan, the next batter, known as 
“the man who never struck out,” singled down 
the third-base line, and the first run came in. 

The Midget brushed the hair from his fore- 
head and stopped until his hand stopped shaking. 
Then he pitched — pitched like a demon. Batters 
were mowed down in one, two, three, order. 
When the ball was hit at all, it went straight into 
the hands of some fielder. The snappy work 
seemed infectious; not an error was made. And 
so the game went, inning after inning, with no 
more runs for either side, and with the score 
1 to 0. 

In the sixth The Midget’s hopes began to re- 
vive. Big Kennedy dropped a safe one into right 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 45 

field, and the next batter swung his bat idly while 
four balls shot past, each an inch from the plate. 
Then Gleason sent a long fly to right field, and 
Kennedy went to third after it was caught. 

The Midget was up. He grasped his bat 
firmly, and looked toward Kling, who was coach- 
ing from the third-base line. The big fellow 
lifted a finger idly, and The Midget stiffened, 
every nerv^e alert. He had been given the signal 
to work the “squeeze” play; he must hit the first 
pitched ball, no matter where it came nor where 
the hit went, to give Kennedy a chance to score. 

It seemed to The Midget that the pitcher took 
hours to throw. He rubbed the ball on the grass, 
and then in the soft dirt. He wiped off his hand, 
and sifted a little sand over it to give him a firmer 
grip on the ball. Finally, however, he grasped 
it tightly, swung his arm in the peculiar move- 
ment to which the batters were becoming accus- 
tomed, and threw. 

Even as his arm circled. The Midget saw Ken- 


46 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

nedy start. Desperately the boy held out his bat 
limply. It seemed to him the ball was as big as 
a balloon as it shot toward him; then suddenly it 
grew small — too infinitely small to hit. It lagged 
in the air, it wavered to one side, it stopped al- 
together. At last, just as The Midget, with the 
perspiration breaking out all over him, had given 
up hope, it struck his bat, and rebounded gently 
out into the diamond. 

At the crack of the bat. The Midget was off. 
The white line to first seemed to mock him, and 
he staggered a little, as an intoxicated man might. 
Half way there he felt a blind, unreasoning de- 
sire to turn and see what had happened. Up in 
the grand stand, where the crowd had been so 
noisy, there was absolute silence. 

The Midget heard a sudden roar from the 
crowd — ^his crowd; a roar of delight, and at his 
left, from somewhere out in the diamond, the 
ball whizzed to first. They had failed to get 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


47 


Kennedy at the plate. The “squeeze’’ play had 
worked, and the score was tied ! 

After that, the fanning of the next man was 
a small matter. The score was tied, — that was 
all that counted. The teams were on equal terms 
again, and The Midget’s gloom was dispelled. 
Now he felt happy, light-hearted, gay, as if the 
game was already won. 

But this battle was by no means over. Both 
nines were fighting for a championship, and both 
were warring desperately. Time after time, only 
phenomenal catches in the outfield, or snappy 
playing around the bases, prevented runs. 

The ninth inning came and went. Over in the 
west the sun hugged the horizon. But the spec- 
tators were not impaitient; for the game was mag- 
nificent. 

It happened in the tenth. The Midget had 
fanned the first batter, and the second was up 
when the ball slipped from the boy’s hand and 
hit the man at the bat. Sorry, but by no means 


48 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

discoiirged, The Midget prepared to strike out 
the next. Whether it was his fault or Gleason’s, 
they were never able to settle; but in some way 
the signals crossed, and the catcher flung himself 
desperately after an out-curve that he expected 
to swerve in the opposite direction. He stopped it 
with his bare right hand, and with the very tips 
of his fingers ; but it split one of his nails and the 
blood spurted ominously. 

It was Kling who reached him first. Down 
in his heart a great fear began to grow. If Glea- 
son were injured too much to continue, there 
was only Pinden, who could never handle The 
Midget’s balls, and Bounder, who had done so 
much to injure the pitcher’s chances early in the 
season. 

His worst fears were realized. Gleason’s 
whole finger-tip was tom, and it was a sheer im- 
possibility for him to catch another ball. Kling 
called The Midget. 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


49 


“There’s only Pinden,” he said helplessly, “and 
you know he can’t do it.” 

“There’s Bounder,” suggested The Midget, 
smiling a little. “And when he’s willing Boun- 
der’s mighty good.” 

For a minute the coach stared at the boy. 
Then he turned abruptly, and called Bounder, 
who came running forward without his glove, 
sure that he would not be put in. 

“You’ll catch me,” said The Midget, tersely, 
“and you’ll help me win.” 

There was a suggestion of a question in the 
last words. Bounder looked up quickly. 

“Yes, we’ll win,” he said, so quietly that both 
the others knew he was holding himself in by 
pure will-power. “I’ve waited all season for this 
chance. Midget.” 

Kling’s face lighted. The puzzle had seemed 
so complicated that no solution was possible ; and 
yet it was all very simple. 

So Bounder caught and The Midget pitched. 


50 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


Never had a battery worked together to better 
advantage. Up in the grandstand, ‘the unini- 
tiated wondered why the combination had never 
play into each other’s hands. 

And in the first half of the eleventh, after the 
tenth had passed without a score. Bounder came 
up to bat, fresh and untried by the opposing bat- 
tery, and whipped a long, low drive far out into 
right field for three bases. Then The Midget, 
who was too small to hit far, but who could sac- 
rifice magnificently, bunted half way down the 
first base line, and Bounder scored. 

The last half of the eleventh began with the 
score 2 to 1, and the game seemed won. 

But the losers had not given up. The first 
batter whistled a liner just over short-stop, and 
perched triumiphantly on first. Thorne, the next 
man up, was weak, and The Midget shot them 
straight over, with just enough curve to prevent 
his meeting them squarely. 

As he drew back his arm to pitch the third 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


51 


strike, he heard the other coach implore the bat- 
ter not to knock into a double. The Midget 
smiled when the batter popped up a high in-field 
fly. He knew the other team was glad he had 
gone out without forcing anybody. 

The ball was between the pitcher and second. 
The baseman came up under it, and The Midget 
raced back of him to be ready for a possible error. 
As he ran, he glanced back. The batter, dis- 
gusted, was trotting slowly to first, and the run- 
ner was hugging the bag. An inspiration came 
to The Midget. 

“Drop it,” he whispered shrilly to the second 
baseman, “and line it to second for a double.” 

The other’s eyes kindled, as he nodded, still 
with hands poised high for the ball. As it fell, 
however, he suddenly jumped bark, took it on 
the bounce and snapped it quickly to The Midget 
on second, who in turn threw it hard to first. The 
runner was forced, and the man out at first. 

It was a double play that brought the crowd 


52 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


to its feet. A roar of appreciation of such 
brainy playing came out to the boy, and the bat- 
ter, reproved by the coach for not running it out, 
slunk back to the bench. There was still a chance, 
however, and the team always died fighting. 

The chance developed into a possibility, and 
even a probability. For the first time there was 
an error in the out-field, and on what should have 
been a put-out the batter reached third. It was 
disheartening to The Midget, as a grevious error 
always is to a pitcher at a critical point, but the 
boy did not falter. Carefully, skillfully he pre- 
pared to pitch to Finnegan, “the man who never 
struck out.” 

The big Irishman was determined to get a hit; 
not over-anxious, but sure. The Midget sent in 
his best out-curve, and Finnegan hit it far across 
the field. It was foul, to be sure, but it showed 
The Midget what to expect. 

The boy beckoned the catcher. 

“Bounder,” he said, “we’ve got to fan him, and 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


53 


there’s only one way — with the ‘spit’ ball. I’ll 
try to control it, and you must stop them if they 
do go wild.” 

“Yes,” said Bounder. 

“And keep me cool,” blurted out The Midget. 

So that was it. The catcher looked up quickly. 
“I saw how Gleason irritated you,” he said sim- 
ply. “I’ve been studying you and Gleason all 
season just for this chance.” 

He went behind the bat and adjusted his mask. 
First he signalled for a wide straight ball. The 
Midget threw it. 

“One ball!” called the umpire. 

Bounder signalled for a wide out-curve. 

“Two balls!” echoed the umpire. 

Finnegan grinned. “ ’Fraid to let me hit it,” 
he sneered to Bounder. 

The latter did not answer. He had signalled 
for the “spit” ball, and was holding his glove 
exactly where he wanted the throw. As The 
Midget hesitated, he nodded confidently, never 


54 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


swerving Iiis position. Somehow a flood of confi- 
dence came over the little pitcher. He could 
tlirow it; he could do it as easily as he could put 
over a straight one. 

Finnegan straightened up and drew back his 
bat. The ball looked a perfect strike. He 
swung, tried to stop the bat half way, and then 
completed the semi-circle six inches wide ! 

“Strike two !” called the umpire. The foul had 
been the first. 

Nobody cheered. The silence was awful. 
Neither Finnegan nor Bounder chided each other 
now. Every fielder was leaning forward, hands 
on his knees, waiting. Even the umpire, now be- 
hind the catcher, was resting all his weight on his 
forward foot. 

Bounder signalled for another “spit” ball. It 
was quite unnecessary to call for it. The Midget 
knew he must throw it as well as the catcher. 
Even Finnegan understood what was to come. 

It began like the first, and the batter bit his lips 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


55 


with eagerness till the blood came. He told him- 
self he must hit it. But, a half dozen feet from 
the plate, it broke from its hne as the friction of 
the air on the moist surface caught it, and Fin- 
negan, “the man who never struck out,’' swung 
wildly and fanned! 

The game was won by the score of 2 to 1, and 
the championship was only a few points away. 

As the crowd broke upon the field, The Midget 
trotted over to Bounder. As he reached him, 
Khng came up. 

“Good boy. Midget,” was all he said, but there 
was a world of affection in his voice. 

The Midget grinned happily. “And, Boun- 
der,” he declared, “you’re a ‘good boy’, too. Isn’t 
he Kling?” 

“He certainly is,” exclaimed the coach heartily; 
and both he and The Midget liked the pleased 
flush on the caitcher’s face. His chance had 
come, and he had met it splendidly. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE STOLEN TROPHY CUP 


lOME of them 
f are pretty val- 
uable, aren’t they?” 
asked Bounder. 

The Midget 
looked up quickly 
and laughe d — 
laughed until he 
caught the narrow 
glint in the other’s 
eyes ; and then stopped suddenly, awed and 
queerly ashamed. 

“Ye-es,” he stammered, “pretty valuable, I 
guess. How about it Kling?” 

The big coach looked around proudly. It 
was the trophy room of the gymnasium, and 



MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 57 

cups and ums and medals and pennants all cried 
for recognition. It was a handsome display. 

“Yes,” drawled Kling, “but they’re a thousand 
times more valuable as trophys than as market- 
able stuff. Still, here’s a loving cup, for ex- 
ample, 'that the chaps gave us when we resumed 
athletic relations with the Cardinals; it’s worth 
a few dollars.” 

“But you couldn’t sell it for much,” protested 
The Midget. 

“But you could!” It was Bounder’s voice, and 
the words were almost angry. “I know a fellow 
in the city — Vohen, just off Eighth Avenue on 
Twenty-third Street he is — who would take it in 
a minute. If you’re careless about locking it up, 
some chap with no money and lots of debts, 
like me, will get it.” 

There was more to the conversation, but it 
soon drifted 'to other topics. Not until Thurs- 
day evening, after practice, was it recalled by 
The Midget. He was dressing, after a swim in 


58 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

the tank, and had just closed his locker when he 
felt a hand on his arm. 

The coach’s face told him that something was 
wrong. Neither spoke imtil they were outside 
the building; then Kling faced the boy. 

“It’s gone!” he said hoarsely. 

“What?” asked The Midget, bewildered. 

“The cup — the trophy — the one — ” 

It was The Midget who finished the sentence. 

“ — 'the one you showed Bounder.” 

Over at Library Hall the clock tolled six. Not 
until the last clang had echoed and re-echoed 
into silence did the two cease staring at each 
other. 

“I don’t believe he took it,” protested The 
Midget. 

“Nor I,” agreed Kling, “but — ” 

The Midget whisitled softly. “You don’t sup- 
pose,” he suggested, “that it would be worth while 
running into the city,” He stopped. “Vohen’s 
is just olf Eighth Avenue on Twenty-third 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


59 


Street, you Imow,” he continued, as carelessly 
as he could. 

“I’ll go,” decided Kling decisively. “You 
turn in early and say nothing about it.” 

It was nearly noon of the next day before The 
Midget saw him again. There came a gentle tap 
at the door of the boy’s room, and Kling pushed 
his way in. 

“Bounder did it,” he said dejectedly. “It was 
there, big as hfe, left by a smooth-faced young 
man, according to Vohen. And” — the coach 
paused dramatically — “and Bounder went to the 
city night before last!” 

“But—” 

“Isn’t that enough,” snapped Kling. He was 
tired and irritable. The thought of the deciding 
baseball game the following day, with Gleason 
out of it on account of a sore finger, and Bounder 
— ^he sat up very suddenly. 

“Look here. Midget,” he began. “The fel- 
low’s a thief — no doubt of that. But we must 


60 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 



He plunged over a helpless mass of legs and arms. 

Page 73. 



MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


61 


use him tomorrow ; we must win that game, and 
we can’t do it without him. Why can’t we sim- 
ply let the matter slide till next week; why 
can’t—” 

“Because,” said The Midget, very simply, “be- 
cause we can’t. There’s only one thing to do: 
call him and let him prove his innocence.” 

“But he can’t,” complained Kling; “he isn’t 
innocent.” 

The Midget remembered the way in which 
Bounder’s averice had shown itself in the trophy 
room. But he remembered, too, the way in which 
the catcher had redeemed himself in the critical 
game the week before. So he only shook his 
head doubtfully. 

They sent for Bounder, and he came. Kling 
did the talking, while The Midget looked on, 
silent, sympathizing. 

At the first suggestion of the cup. Bounder 
flushed. But when he began to see that he wa^ 


62 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

accused of stealing it, his anger burst forth. He 
looked from one to <the other. 

Kling raised his hand. “The Midget,’’ he said 
frankly, “ still believes in you enough to hope. 
I can’t!” 

An hour later they went out of the room, 
Bounder protesting his innocence one minute and 
blazing forth in anger the next, Kling very silent 
and sorrowful, and The Midget looking as if he 
were the one who had been accused. 

Bounder practiced that afternoon, vowing to 
prove his innocence in time. On these terms both 
Khng and The Midget agreed that he should be 
allowed to pitch the game on the following day. 

But Saturday morning, when they called at 
his room for another talk, he was gone. On the 
table was a note addressed 'to The Midget. 

“It’s no use,” it said; “I’ve gone. Kling is 
sure I’m a thief, and you’re almost convinced. I 
can’t catch ‘the game feeling as I do now.” 

And then, in a postscript down at the bottom: 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


63 


“I hope the old college wins!” 

When The Midget had read the note he 
handed it to Kling. The big coach read it twice, 
stared out of the window and then faced the boy. 

‘T wonder,” he said, “if we could have been 
mistaken, after all. That postscript — ” 

As the two crossed the campus a uniformed 
boy ran up to the coach and handed him a tele- 
gram. Kling ripped it open hastily and read it 
with an exclamation of surprise and consterna- 
tion. He drew his hand across his eyes hurriedly, 
and passed it to The Midget. 

“Have man — confessed — professional — not 
the party under suspicion — positive. Stone.” 

“Stone?” suggested the boy. 

“Detective,” said Kling tersely. They walked 
on silently. “Midget,” blurted out the big coach, 
“it wasn’t Bounder at all. And he’s gone — 
where?” 

With one accord they turned toward the regis- 
ter’s office. A few hurried questions and a con- 


64 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

sultation of some names and addresses brought 
forth the fact that Bounder’s home was in May- 

r 

ville, a town about twenty miles up- State. 

“I’ll go,” said Kling. 

“No, let me,” urged The Midget. “I’m not 
sure he’d come for you.” 

The coach nodded. “You’re right,” he said. 
“Go, then, and get back in time. You’ve only 
a few hours.” 

So The Midget caught the first street car for 
the station. Here luck favored him, and he 
boarded a train after a wait of only a few min- 
utes. 

May ville was a sleepy, little town, seemingly 
set in the midst of dense woods. The Midget 
dropped off the train, and for a moment stood 
irresolute. Then he secured time-tables, and 
studied the return trains. One left at noon and 
one at three. 

“We must get the first,” The Midget told him- 
self. “But if we miss it, the second will get us 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 65 

there about the beginning of the second inning.” 

He found Bounder’s home readily enough. 
In answer to his knock a kindly grey-haired lady, 
who proved to be the mother, came to the door. 

“I don’t know just where Rob is,” she said, in 
answer to his question. ‘‘He took his gun this 
morning and went out into the North Woods. 
He came home worried about something, and 
said he wouldn’t be back till supper-time.” 

“ ‘Wouldn’t be back till supper-time.’ ” The 
Midget repeated the words dully. 

“But Rob’s in the North Woods somewhere,” 
she persisted. “You might run across him.” 

The Midget thanked her mechanically, and 
turned away, sick at heart. To the north, shin- 
ing warm and green in their fresh spring leaves, 
the trees of the North Woods beckoned. It was 
only one chance in a thousand, but the boy took it. 
First he wired Kling not to expect him till 
after three; then he plunged across the pasture 
into the woods. 


66 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

Outside the sun had been shining, hot and 
glaring. Among the trees, however, it was cool 
and dark. The change was welcome to The 
Midget, and he salt down on a stump to study the 
situation. It would never do to go about his 
work bhndly. 

Before he had left the village, he had noted 
that the strip of woods was dotted with hills and 
gullies. Now he determined to climb toward the 
highest points, and to “holloo” when he reached 
them. In this way he might attract Bounder’s 
attention, or might even see him. 

The Midget was no woodsman. The vines 
entangled his feet; the soft, decaying wood trip- 
ped him; the briars and bushes swished across 
his face, leaving tiny welts of red. Once 
squirrel, darting up a tree not two feet away, 
made his heart beat fast. Burt the boy was de- 
termined. He woud not give up his quest. 

It seemed an hour before he reached the first 
summit, although his watch told him it was only 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 67 

ten minutes. Once there he was disappointed to 
find that he could see little; that he only looked 
down on a dense blanket of green formed by the 
waving tree tops. He shouted frantically, but 
received no answering call. Drowning the dis- 
appointment that persisted in overwhelming 
him he pushed on sturdily. 

The next hill was lower, and the trees were 
fewer. His first shout brought an answer, far 
ahead, arid his hopes waxed high. Holding his 
position he shouted again and again, gradually 
guiding the other tow^ard him. The Midget was 
ready to dance with joy. 

Then the man came into sight — not Bounder 
at all — and The Midget called himself a fool 
for supposing that tlie catcher was the only man 
in the North Woods. 

The man eyed him curiously, and awaited his 
explanation. He was a rough, uncouth fellow. 

“I’m looking for a fellow named Bounder — 
Rob Bounder,” he explained. “He’s somewhere 


68 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

in the woods here, and I want to locate him as 
soon as possible.” 

The other nodded. ‘T see him a while back,” 
he said, ‘‘a-steerin’ into the woods. That was an 
hour past, howsoever. Better keep a-drillin’ 
right in.” 

The Midget thanked him, and plunged for- 
ward. The sparse growth of trees soon gave 
way to a dense tangle, and the boy found his pro- 
gress greatly retarded. No answering calls came 
to his shouts. 

A twig caught his trouser-leg and tore it. His 
cap had been swept aside long before. His left 
hand was bleeding a little where he had struck 
it against thorns and dead limbs. His right he 
thrust into his coat. At all events, he must pitch 
the game that afternoon, Bounder or no Boun- 
der. 

He looked at his watch and whistled appre- 
hensively. It was almost two, and he had been 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 69 

in the woods nearly three hours. He must hurry 
to catch the train himself. 

Guiding himself by the sun, which had be- 
gun to creep down the western sky, he walked 
and ran toward the village. Twice he fell, and 
both times he wrenched his left wrist. It began 
to pain him slightly, but he only shut his lips 
firmly and pushed on. It wasn’t his pitching 
wrist! 

When he emerged from the main woods 
finally, the village lay a long ways ahead, sep- 
arated from him by a stretch of green pasture 
land, cut in two by a narrow strip of thick trees. 
He had only a quarter of an hour to catch his 
train. 

As he raced over the pasture to the trees, he 
thought of his hopeless search and of what 
Bounder’s absence from the game meant to the 
team. He had little hope of winning without 
him. Gleason was injured, and the other substi- 


70 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

tutes were almost out of the qu«ition for a criti- 
cal game. If only he had found Bounder — 

And then, just at the edge of the strip of trees, 
where the shade and sun met, he nearly stumbled 
over Bounder, fast asleep 1 

Like some wild animal The Midget pounced 
upon him. The catcher stirred uneasily, seemed 
inclined 'to shake him off, and then opened his 
eyes. Blank amazement gave way to profound 
disbelief as he began to see and understand 
clearly. 

“Midget Blake 1” he exclaimed what are you 
doing here?” 

There was no time for explanations. 

‘TVe come to take you back witlume,” said the 
boy. “You’ve got to catch for me in the game, 
you know.” 

“What?” asked the bewildered Bounder. 

The Midget explained again. “Come on,” he 
commanded. 

The big fellow on the ground leaned back 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 71 

against the tree. “I won’t” he announced stub- 
bornly. “Do you suppose I am going to play 
under the circumstances? When you get the 
truth — ” 

“We’ve got it,” yelled The Midget. “We’ve 
— ” A long whistle in the distance made him 
pause. “We’ve got the real thief. Hurry, we 
must make that train.” 

Bounder shook the sleepiness from his frame. 
“Are you telling me the truth, Midget?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, yes,” cried the boy, frantic at the delay. 
“Come! For goodness sake. Bounder, hurry! I’ll 
tell you all about it on the train. It’s nearly at 
the station — ^the three o’clock, you know!” 

Bounder awoke. With an exclamation of sur- 
prise he whipped out his watch; then he jumped 
to The Midget’s side. 

“We’ll run for it,” he exclaimed. “Come on!” 

It was slow progress through the tangle of 
trees. On the other side, however, stretched a 


72 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


long field of close-cropped grass, with a few 
cows grazing languidly upon it. At sight of the 
two racing figures they turned tail and loped 
away awkwardly. 

The Midget put his whole strength into the 
running. Bounder seemed to be possessed of a 
tremendous speed, and of untiring legs. The 
Midget could not understand the strained' mus- 
cles in his own until he recalled the long tramp in 
the woods. But even if his strength was nearly 
gone, he still had grit and nerve. 

Not once did he falter. Close behind Boundei' 
he ran, falling into step as if he were being paced 
in some race. Once or twice the catcher looked 
back ; each time, catching sight of the drawn, de- 
termined look on the boy’s face, he nodded ap- 
provingly and spurted faster than ever. 

The train was in sight, a scant quarter-mile 
away. Between the boys and the sitation was a 
rail fence, perhaps five feet high. Before they 
had reached it, the train was slowing down. 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 73 

“Vault it,” said Bounder, and, with his hands 
on the top rail, went over it like a bird. 

It looked impossible to The Midget. His legs 
were beginning to go back on him. But he flew 
at it gamely, charging iit as he might an oppo- 
nent in football. His hands grasped the top rail, 
and he put every ounce of tired muscle into the 
spring. 

He went up lightly, but his feet failed to clear 
the rail. The shock broke the hold of his hands, 
and he plunged over, a helpless mass of legs and 
arms, with a five-foot fall awaiting him on the 
other side. 

But Bounder had anticipated something of 
the kind. After his vault, he had whirled, to help 
The Midget if necessary. Quickly comprehend- 
ing what had taken place, he caught the boy in 
his arms. Together they rolled upon the ground, 
but Bounder was up no more promptly than The 
Midget. Without a word they raced across the 


74 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

cinder road that circled the station ,and ran des- 
perately for the rear car. 

Bounder literally threw The Midget upon the 
platform, and a brakeman hauled both of them 
to a safe position. The Midget, with his per- 
spiring, dirty, bloody face and torn clothes pre- 
sented a most unattractive appearance. The 
brakeman eyed him curiously. 

“You’ve had a run,” he remarked, quite super- 
fluously. “You must have started late.” 

The Midget wiped ofl* his face with his hand- 
kerchief before he replied. 

“Not too late,” he said, looking at Bounder. 


mm 


CHAPTER V 


THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME 

T he last game 
was sched- 
uled for 3.30, but 
long before that 
time the crowd be- 
" gan to arrive. Every 
street car was jam- 
med; every carriage 
held more than its 
allotted number. In the hands of nearly every 
spectator was a pennant or flag of some kind, — 
most of them crimson, but a few deep blue. 

The teams reached the grounds a little before 
three, and the visitors went out to practice at 
once. Big Coach Kling watched them with an eye 
like a hawk. Down in his heart there was heavy 

75 



76 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


gloom. From the telegram he knew that The 
Midget had not found Bounder at home, and he 
began to doubt if the catcher had gone that way 
at all. Perhaps he was in the city trying to clear 
himself. The next train from Mayville was due 
a minute or two after the game was scheduled to 
start, but the station was nearly a mile away. He 
had left a cab there ready for the run ; but he had 
little hope. He doubted, even, if The Midget 
would come. 

After a brisk preliminary practice of fifteen 
minutes, the gong clanged, and Kling sent out 
his own men. Not until now had it dawned upon 
the others that with The Midget and Bounder 
both missing, they had only a portion of last 
week’s successful nine. When they asked the 
coach about the missing battery, he smiled, try- 
ing to be cheerful. At all odds, he must keep up 
the spirits of the players. 

“They will be here,” he promised confidently; 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


77 



Thrust up his glove a foot above hU head and caught the ball. 

Page 88. 


78 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


“a little late, it may be, but we can go through an 
inning or two without them.” 

Carper was warming up to pitch, and Pinden 
was catching him. Kling watched them critically. 
Occasionally the latter dropped the ball. Often 
the former sliot it hopelessly wide. 

Kling groaned. It seemed to him the nine had 
not a chance in the world to win. He looked at 
the vast crowd that was already overflowing the 
grandstand into the bleachers, and wondered how 
it would take the defeat. The red banners clashed 
against 'the blue in a color effect that blurred his 
sight. 

The gong rang again. It was time for the 
game to begin. Kling spoke to one or two of the 
fielders, and they dwadled away time in a way 
that made the spectators protest loudly. Up in 
the grandstand they did not understand the delay. 

At last, however, it was impossible to hesitate 
longer. Khng gave the signal, and the game was 
on. The umpire tossed out a white ball to Car- 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 79 

per, who shot it in to Pinden three times. Then 
the official called, “Play ball!” and the catcher 
sent it down to second — three feet to the left of 
the base. Kling’s lips closed tight. 

The first batter got his base on balls, and stole 
second on Pinden’s wide throw. A sacrifice sent 
him to third. Up in the grandstand the blue 
pennants waved hysterically, and a short, choppy 
college yell drifted down to Coach Kling. 

Carper grinned a little sheepishly, and took the 
ball. He had an elaborate arm movement that 
began in front of him and ended in a double-cir- 
cle swing. It was calculated to puzzle the bat- 
ter, and sometimes succeeded. To-day it irritated 
Kling ; he wished the boy would be more simple 1 
A semi-circle, and a snappy throw, would be bet- 
ter — that was The Midget’s style. 

The runner on third raced off the base and 
back again. Carper whipped the ball to the base- 
man, but did not catch the runner off the bag. 
Three times he tried this, and three times the 


80 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


umpire shook his head. Then Carper, abandon- 
ing 'the idea of playing for the runner, began to 
“wind up” for the pitch. 

Kling saw it first. Like a shot the runner be- 
gan to race for home. The coach jumped from 
the bench with a quick roar of command to Car- 
per. But the pitcher, stopped in the midst of 
his arm gyrations, seemed utterly bewildered. 
For a long, precious instant he stared stupidly 
at the runner. It was so absurd to try to steal 
home that he could not understand. Then, catch- 
ing himself with an effort, the pitcher seemed to 
unwind, and threw to Pinden. There was a swirl 
of dust at the home plate, but when it cleared the 
the umpire was standing there, palm to the 
ground, roaring, “Runner is safe!” The man had 
stolen home with the ball in Carper’s hand 1 

From that moment Carper lost his head. All 
his skill gave way to his wildness. He hit one 
batter, and walked another. His slow drop ball, 
of which he was so proud, failed entirely to curve. 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


81 


and Finnegan, the mighty, slammed out a home- 
run. The score was 4 to 0, and only one man was 
out. 

It was sheer luck that nohody else hit safely. 
It was fast fielding that made the next two outs 
possible — not Carper’s pitching! 

Kling called to him. Together they walked to 
one side. 

“Carper,” said the big coach, “ you’ve got to do 
better. If The Midget were here — ” 

“The Midget!” blazed out the pitcher. “Why, 
you fool, he’s afraid to play. What do you sup- 
pose keeps him away? He’s lost his nerve. 
He’s—’ 

It was seldom that Kling lost his temper, but 
he did it now. He knew why The Midget was 
not there. To have this insulting, self-centered 
fellow slur the boy was too much. He was angry 
all over. 

“That’s enough from you !” he stormed. “You 
go back to the gymnasium and stay there!” 


82 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


Carper had not expected (this. He knew that 
the only substitute pitchers were hopelessly weak, 
and imagined the coach would not dare take him 
out. But there was no doubting Kling’s decision. 
Carper turned quickly 

“All right,” he said, “I’ll go. But you’ll lose 
the game sure now. You’ll lose it sure; do you 
hear me ? And I hope you do — I hope the college 
loses the championship.” 

After his outburst Kling had cooled. He 
knew it was a waste of time bandying words with 
the fellow, and he turned sharply on his heel and 
went to the bench. Down in his throat was a lit- 
tle lump when he contrasted this player’s wishes 
with those of Bounder. 

His first batter fanned. The second hit too 
short, and was easily thrown out. The third sent 
a high foul, which was easily gathered in by the 
catcher. 

Little Dobbins was sent in to pitch. The 
youngster was willing enough, but he had neither 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


83 


good curves nor great speed. One man died out, 
but the next three all hit safely, and the bases 
were full. 

Up in the grandstand they hooted a little. It 
looked like an ignominious defeat, with a score 
mountain-high. Dobbins called to Kling. 

“I can’t do it,” he sobbed. “I know I can’t. 
I’d do anything for the college and you, Kling; 
but I can’t hold down a team of sluggers. Take 
me out.” 

The coach’s face did not change a feature. 
Calmly, as if it were only a small matter at best, 
he turned to the bench. 

“Clarke,” he called, “come here.” 

Another pitcher, a long, lank fellow, came for- 
ward. Kling looked at him, and remembered his 
former hopeless experiences. But there was 
nothing else to do. 

Out at the gate there was a shout. Kling 
looked up quickly. For a moment his eyes saw 
nothing but the blaze of color in the grandstand. 


84 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


Instead of blurring before his eyes as it had 
done, however, it seemed to take shape. A cu- 
rious fancy that the blue was the sky, and the 
crimson the tints of dawn crept into the coach’s 
mind. It meant promise, hope — everything! 

A cab rolled into the grounds, and two figures 
in street clothes leaped out. The crowd saw a 
little figure with a scratched face and 'tom clothes 
run up to Kling, with another following. Then 
somebody recognized them, and the crowd began 
to cheer hysterically for “Midget — Midget 
Blake.” Somehow it seemed that the salvation 
of the game was at hand. 

The boy whipped off his coat, and rolled up his 
right shirt-sleeve. Smiling confidently he walked 
into the pitcher’s box and threw a half dozen balls 
to the other players not in uniform. Then the 
umpire raised his hand, and the game was on 
again. 

There was almost a riot in the grandstand 
when the next two batters fanned, with three on 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 



Plunged for the white block tnat meant safety and a victory 

Page 92. 


86 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

bases, and the side was retired. Pennants waved 
like a surging sea; men hugged each other and 
brought their canes down on other men’s hats. 
Programmes were tossed up into the air, till it 
seemed a whirlwind had caught them in its eddy. 

Not only had The Midget’s coming braced his 
own team, but it had served to unnerve the lead- 
ers. While the boy and Bounder were getting 
into uniforms in the little room under the grand- 
stand, their team was batting fiercely. When they 
emerged, just as the inning ended, the score- 
keeper put up the figure 2. Two runs that inning 
—and only two behind ! 

They tell to this day how The Midget pitched 
the next six innings, and they tell it in a lowered 
voice, as if it were a thing not possible now. And 
they, tell, too, how in the eighth, with runners on 
second and third, the boy whipped a long, clean 
single past first, scoring the two men on bases 
and tying the score. 

It was then that the noise burst all bounds. 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 87 

Bedlam broke loose. Men rushed down on the 
diamond to grasp the little pitcher’s hand, and 
were ordered off by the umpire. 

But the score was only tied, and the game had 
yet to be won. The first batter in the ninth was 
Finnegan, now renamed, “the man who struck 
out only once,” and it was out of the question to 
expect anything but a terrific drive from him. 
Larrup, the loosely-built left fielder, was cau- 
tioned by The Midget to play close to the eight- 
foot fence that bounded the field. 

“They musn’t score, Larry,” he said; “they 
mustn’t! Finnegan will probably hit to you, and 
you’ve got to make him fly out.” 

Larrup had a soft heart, and he admired The 
Midget greatly. “It won’t get past me, boy,” 
he swore, “not even if I have to go over the fence 
and catch it on the other side.” 

So the inning began. Finnegan waited, letting 
two outside balls and even one strike go past un- 
challenged — waited till a great dread began to 


88 MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 

■take root down in The Midget’s heart. And then 
— then he hit the ball. 

When The Midget heard the square crack of 
the bat, and saw the ball sail toward left field, he 
knew at once that it was over Larrup ’s head — 
probably over the fence. A sudden weakness 
made his legs tremble and threaten to give way 
beneath him. He felt like sitting down and cry- 
ing — sobbing like a baby. It was only one run, 
and there was a chance — ^just a lone chance — of 
offsetting it in the last half of the ninth. 

For a second after the ball was hit. Larrup 
stood stock still. Then he turned sharply and 
raced for the fence, never looking back till he 
reached it. The Midget waited, breathless, ho- 
ping the fielder might put up his hands to catch it. 
Instead he turned and faced the fence. The ball 
must be hopelessly over his head. It would be 
impossible to shut off the run. 

Then Larrup did something that brought the 
crowd to its feet, stark mad. He ran straight 
L. OF a 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 89 

for the fence, jumped for the top board, and 
hanging there with one hand, thrust up his glove 
a foot above his head — and caught the ball ! 

It was almost impossible to restore order. It 
was the mo^ wonderful one-handed catch the 
crowd had ever seen. Coach Kling, who had run 
out from the bench, staggered back to it, limp 
and weak with the sudden revulsion of feeling. 
Only The Midget smiled. “Larrup made good!” 
he told himself over and over. “Now it’s my turn. 

No sooner had the crowd quieted than it was 
on its feet again, cheering The Midget, with 
three straight strike-outs to his credit. 

Bouncjer was the first man at bat in the last 
half of the ninth. Inspired by the wonderful 
playing of his team-mates, he put his whole soul 
into the idea of hitting safely. A pitch, exactly 
to his liking, gave him the opportunity, and he 
singled along the third-base line. 

The Midget was up. Kling signalled to him 
to sacrifice, and the boy caught the first strike 


90 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


and bunted it perfectly toward first. In an in- 
stant he was even with the slowly rolling ball, 
and side by side he raced it to base. The pitcher 
endeavored to scoop it up, and get it to the man 
on first, but failed. There were two men on 
bases and nobody out. 

Big Anderson fiied far into deep center, and 
Bounder raced to third after the ball was caught. 
The Midget, however, was held on first. 

Coach Kling put in Robertson, who played 
substitute, to bat in place of the next man. He 
failed to get a hit, however, and neither Bounder 
nor The Midget advanced on his weak hit. There 
were two out, and a run seemed as far away as 
ever, in spite of the man on third. 

From the third base line, Kling signalled for 
The Midget to go down to second on the first 
pitched ball, hoping to work the double-steal and 
score Bounder. The boy raced down the line, 
keeping a wary eye on the ball. The catcher 
started to throw it, hesitated, and finally tossed 


MIDGET BLAKE, PITCHER 


91 


it to the pitcher. The Midget, who had watched 
his indecision, halted suddenly, three feet from 
second base. Then, to the amazement of the 
great crowd, the boy doubled on his tracks and 
ran back to first! 

It was new to the crowd in the grandstand, 
that gasped and declared the boy a fool; it was 
new to the other pitcher, who stood there stupidly 
with the ball in his hand. After the buzz of com- 
ment had died down, the crowd saw the pitcher 
deliver another strike, and The Midget run for 
second again. 

Just how bewildered the catcher had been by 
the seeming idiocy of The Midget, would be hard 
to say. Certain it is, however, that when he saw 
the boy running between the same bases a second 
time, he determined to end the matter, and end it 
quickly. In all probability, his amazement at 
the previous play had made him forget, at least 
temporarily, the runner on third. 

He shot the ball clear to second, and not to the 


92 


MIDGET BLAKE, IITCHER 


short-stop playing just behind the pitcher. The 
throw was low, and the second-baseman was 
forced to stoop almost to the ground to take it. 
Now, as everybody knows, on a low catch it is 
necessary to straighten up before the ball can be 
returned, and precious seconds are lost in the 
movement. Khng had coached Bounder off for 
home the instant the catcher threw, and before 
the ball was whizzing back he was nearly at the 
plate. He threw himself desperately into the air, 
head first, and with hands extended like a diver, 
plunged for the white block that meant safety 
and a victory. 

The crowd watched and waited, with the 
grandstand and bleachers as still as they were 
when not a soul occupied them. Long before the 
dust had cleared, the bellow of the umpire rang 
out, the signal for Bedlam again: 

“The runner is safe!” 

The game was won, and with it the inter-col- 
legiate championship I 


/ 


The World’s 

Classics Retold 

This “ Retold ” Library is an attempt to bring 
the world’s classics to the comprehension of chil- 
dren, not only as a source of literary amusement, 
but as a supplementary aid to larger knowledge. 

The series has been arranged and edited by 
writers well qualified to reach the juvenile mind. 
Other volumes will appear from time to time on 
this list. The books are printed from new plates, 
modem type, and illustrated in tints with colored 
frontispieces done in lithography. Small 1 2mo, 
stamped artistically in three colors. Price 50 cts. 

The volumes are as follows : 

Stories from the Old Testament. 

New Testament. 

Faerie Quaene, Spenser. 

“ “ Chaucer. 

“ ** “ King Arthur’s Knights, from 

Malory’s “ Morte D’Arthur.” 
The Heroes, Charles Kingsley. 

Water Babies, “ 

Ivanhoe, Sir Walter Scott. 

Rob Roy, Sir Walter Scott. 


890 Broadway, N. Y. 



McLoughlin’s Elditions of 

Recitation Books 


Something new in the construction of a series of Recita- 
tion Books for young people, edited and arranged by 
Matilda Blair, from the writings of some of the most 
popular authors of prose and verse. Handsomely illus- 
trated, with frontispieces done in lithography. Cloth, 
octavo. 160 pp. Artistically stamped in colors. Price 
50 cents. 

WEE PIECES FOR WEE SPEAKERS ' 

“ * Wee Pieces for Wee Speakers ’ should be popular with 
the mothers and teachers who are called upon to provide 
‘ pieces ’ for the children to speak. All ages and tastes 
are provided for, with a little girls’ and a little boys’ section, 
a special assortment of Christmas selections, and hundreds 
of verses for older amateur elocutionists. Some very good 
poetry is included.” — Chicago Record- Her aid. 

THE IDEAL SPEAKER 

* This volume fills a long felt want for a handy, relia- 
ble speaker for the young people. It contains recitations. 
Just what they are looking for. It will indeed be very help- 
ful to the school boy or girl who so often cannot find a 
suitable piece to recite, but will ever find one if they have 
this book. We gladly commend it and hope it will have 
the large circulation it so richly deserves.” — Southern Star, 

THE NONPAREIL READER AND SPEAKER 

The * Nonpareil Speaker’ will be welcomed by parents 
and teachers for the fresh material graded for all ages.” 

— Boston Herald, 

“The 'Nonpareil Speaker’ is composed of humorous 
verse, dramatic selections, oratory and tableau vivants. 
The book furnishes evidence that the work of compilation 
has been well done.” — Pittsburgh Chronicle- leUgraph, 

Other volumes in preparation 


890 Broadway, N. Y. 



McLOUGHLIN’S 
ONE-SYL-LA-BLE BOOKS 


These volumes have been before tne punfic for 
many years and are acknowledged by press and 
public to be the best editions in one-syl-la-ble 
that can be put into the hands of the children. 
Illustrated in colors; done in lithography; octavo^ 
cloth, stamped in colors. Price 35 cents. 


History of the United States, by 
Life of George Washington, “ 
Robinson Crusoe, “ 

Swiss Family Robinson, ‘‘ 

Sandford and Merton, “ 

Pilgrim's Progress, “ 

Lives of the Presidents, “ 

Life of Lincoln, “ 

Bible Stories, 


Josephine Pollard 

Daniel Defoe 
J. D. Wysz 
Thomas Day 
John Bunyan 
Harry Putnam 

u u 

(Selected) 


Other volumes in preparation 


890 Broadway, N. Y 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



